


That Ain't Mayonnaise

by friedhotsauce



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:09:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friedhotsauce/pseuds/friedhotsauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bombur is sick and tired of the Company's relentless teasing. He isn't one for pranks, but he does believe strongly in what comes around, goes around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Ain't Mayonnaise

                                                                That Ain’t Mayonnaise

          Bombur had had enough. Enough of the relentless teasing, and fat jokes, and the loneliness. Yes, loneliness. Despite being in the company of thirteen dwarves (of those thirteen, two were his relatives), a hobbit, and a wizard, Bombur had never felt so alone. Almost everyone took a liking to insulting him, including his own brother, Bofur. Despite the intended lightness the pokes started with, they slowly began to weigh on poor Bombur’s mind. Their cousin Bifur, (although the eldest of the three) didn’t pay much attention to these going-ons, but he didn’t jeer with the others and Bombur was very thankful for that. He showed his gratitude by pouring the elder a little more stew than the others and cleaning his weapons.

 

Speaking of thankful, that is something the rest of the company wasn’t; thankful for the hard work that was put into every meal Bombur made. Sure one could argue _‘what work? It’s just stew most of the time.’_ Valid the point is, but keep in mind the effort he and he alone had to perform: collect fresh water from the nearest river, wash the gigantic iron pot and bowls, haul it all back to camp, start a fire, and not to mention find the meat and vegetables. The list could go on for days, and it caused Bombur to grow weary over the lack of appreciation. 

 

One evening, as the rest of the company chatted and practised war strategies away from the established camp, Bombur (of course) was hurriedly trying to complete his tasks. He laboriously carried the pot and an assortment of dishes back to camp from the river. Around that time Ori, who was feeling unusually bold (probably thanks to his new-found friendship with Fili and Kili), aimed his slingshot at the juggling mass of dishes and fired a single rock. To Bombur’s bad luck, everything in his hands crashed to the ground. He turned furiously toward Ori’s direction, but his fury was cut short. He stood amongst the tall grass in a stupor, as Dori approached Ori; not to scold him but to congratulate his impeccable aim! At that the fed up dwarf collapsed on to the ground. A few hurt tears escaped his eyes when he heard the others cheer the younger dwarf’s ‘progress’ with his weapon. Bombur continued to agonize over giving in to his brother’s repeated request to join him and Bifur on the journey. The atmosphere here was cold and inhospitable, he couldn’t take it! Sure, some gold coins wouldn’t hurt to add to his unimpressive cook’s income. But it was irrefutable that his humble home was worth more than whatever any jewel could buy him. Bombur continued to sit glumly.

 

 Then he started to think of his children; their shining faces could sunny-up a bad day in an instant. He smiles to himself as he remembers walking them to school and then back home. Back home to their mother, his wife Corrina. Not a day goes by since their marriage day that he doesn’t wonder how he got so lucky. Their children had inherited her beauteous smile. Bombur ponders it further until he thinks of the skin wrapped around her pearly whites: her lips. Bombur releases a trembling gasp as he subconsciously begins to fondle the throbbing bulge in his trousers. He focuses on her round, soft lips, and the taste of sweet strawberries starts to linger on his taste buds. The image of Corrina’s body transfers through his mind. He could almost feel her warm, smooth neck he would always kiss tenderly when the children were asleep. Bombur began to unzip his trousers, and gripped his manhood softly, just as she would. The appendage hardened when he regained the memory of her breasts. So perfectly rounded they were, and had the consistency of goose-feather stuffed pillows. The gigantic honey coloured mounds circled around smaller dots that were the shade and taste of soft peach candies. Their youngest child was yet a toothless baby, and sometimes if Bombur nibbled on them long enough, Corrina’s nipples would leak with milk. He licked his lips at the sudden thought and he thrusted roughly into his hand, which he had conveniently shaped into a circle. He felt a sticky, creamy liquid flow on to his hands and shot his eyes open. The vision of his naked wife disappeared. It made Bombur frown deeply at the prospect of interacting with the others again. He was about to get up, but to his embarrassed horror, his entire lap-area was drenched. 

 

The bullied dwarf almost thought about ending right then and there, when suddenly an idea seemed to lift all his worries away. It was an evil and cruel idea, but it was definitely fitting for his tormentors. Bombur picked up the dullest butter-knife among the utensils, and carefully scraped off the still moist cum from his trousers. He proceeded to take thirteen spoons and transfer the viscous liquid to them. He placed the spoons back into the bowls and set them aside; it was time to make the stew. Bombur’s mood took a complete turn, from depressed and glum to giddy with excitement for his prank’s turnout. He started a fire, filled the pot with water, and set it to boil. With a quickened pace he picked up whatever edible plants there were within eyeshot. It would be a very simple dinner, and if the others complained, he would merely 

laugh. Bombur giggled in delight as the stew became fit to eat. He carried each bowl to the pot and ladled in a few cup-fulls. With excited fingers he stirred the spoons and watched thirteen of the fifteen bowl’s contents turn form translucent to a milky white. With a delighted laugh, Bombur called the group for dinner.

 

“Come and get it!” He cried out. 

“It’s about time.” Thorin grumbled, snatching his bowl from Bombur’s (still) sticky hands.

“No Dori!” Bombur cried, stopping the elder in his tracks. “That bowl isn’t yours.” He snatched the dish with the translucent stew away. “That’s for Bifur,” he consoled. Bombur settled next to his way-ward cousin around the outskirts of the camp, and passed him his dinner. He watched over his brethren contently, as they shoveled spoon after spoon of the cum filled stew. As they finished it (only minutes after receiving), to Bombur’s surprise they approached him and complimented his cooking skills. 

“Absolutely formidable!” Bilbo cheered.

“You know what you should do? You should open a restaurant!” Fili and Kili instructed. The comments touched his heart so much; that he forgot to laugh at their stupidity! Then Bofur approached him.

“What’s your secret, brother?”

“Guess.”

“Well it has an unusual white colour. I’m going to guess milk.”

“No.”

“Cream?”

“White leaves or flowers?”

“No.”

“Then what could it be?”

“Mayonnaise.”

“Really?”

“No.”

 

 

THE END


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